


That Voodoo Thing You Do

by Kitsune_Airi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Radio, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_Airi/pseuds/Kitsune_Airi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew love at first sight, and he knew love that bloomed over time. What John never knew was that he could fall in love with just a voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Voice on the Radio

John hated his job.  
  
Coming back from the war had not been easy, and with his bum leg and shaking hands, what self-respecting hospital would hire him? Well, except as a security guard. Ex-soldiers were perfect for that, weren't they?  
  
The chill of the night brought no comfort as John made his rounds at Barts, the beam of light from his torch doing little to abate the darkness in the corners of the building. Sometimes John imagined that it was like one of the new horror games he had seen advertised on the telly, the ones kids seem to love so much, just to keep him mindful. But nothing ever happened here.  
  
Nothing ever happened to him.  
  
John took a deep breath and shook it off. It was these cold lonely nights that bothered him most; it really felt like a waste of time. But in the end, money was money, and you can't stay in London on an army pension.  
  
There is just one consolation to his night shifts, something he indulged in every night in fact. It was a radio show hosted by younger man called "Holmes", and John found him out right fascinating. Many nights he would ramble on and on about the crimes reported in the papers, literally stripping the words of the article down to nothing, and then railing on the missing details, the facts, always with the facts that he hunted. Holmes lectured on the importance of even the smallest details (the state of their jewelry, the scent of their aftershave, the expense of their shoes), and always gave a proper scenario for their importance.  
  
Sometimes he took calls from listeners, either with their own questions or to listen to them complain about the show. Listening to this man, with his biting retorts and dry humor, John really felt the contempt Holmes seemed to have for most of people and their ‘glaring’ stupidity; it was a bit jarring. There were letters too, all sorts of letters, many of them criticizing Holmes and his methods. They called him a "scam", a “freak”, a “psycho”, and even a liar; but Holmes seemed more offended by the lack of reasoning than the insults themselves. He read these letters with such disbelief that, more often than not, he ended up correcting the sender's grammar before even addressing the content itself, and did so with exacting and un-reprehensible finesse.  
  
John ate it up every time, catching himself saying “Brilliant!" to the radio with embarrassing frequency, as though he could speak with Holmes directly. John had an earnest admiration for the way this man could decipher so much information from such little unobserved details. "The Science of Deduction," he called it. There was even a website for the show, chronicling all the various topics and cases that were covered in his talks. The site itself was all very clinical; everything was perfectly scientific (except for in his notes, where every bit of Holmes' sarcasm and arrogance shone brightly) and rather dense reading for John's liking, but he read it anyway just to remind himself of how Holmes sounded when he spoke similar words.  
  
There was something mesmerizing about man's voice as well; John had no words that could accurately describe the deep, all-consuming allure that the low timbre of his voice held. It should be known that John, for all his previous debauchery (Three-Continents Watson had known no bounds), was not the kind of person to develop a fancy over just one part of a person, but for this man's voice-- he would do anything just to listen to it for as long as humanly possible.  
  
John came back to self. A small smile playing on his lips as John hurried to finish his rounds and get back to the guard booth at the front gate and tune into his nightly indulgence. With the knowledge of the secure perimeter, John happily stared off into the darkness of the road as Holmes began a long and arduous lecture about the state of sentimental objects and their correlation to the state of that relationship.  
  
“And that concludes the part of the show where I care. Let’s take some calls shall we?”  The voice of Holmes was sounding a bit miffed tonight; perhaps he was frustrated with something outside of the show , John thought absently. A young woman’s voice came through the speaker.  
  
“Holmes?”  
  
“That would be me, yes. You are on the air.”  
  
“Oh, wow. I’m so happy I finally got through. My name is Evelyn. Um, I just wanted to tell you that I think your voice is dreadfully attractive, but I can’t seem to find a picture of you on the net anywhere. Any chance that we could get a picture?” She sounded so excited and nervous; the kind of person John expected Holmes to tear to bits as usual.  
  
“Ever thought perhaps there’s a reason for that? The answer is no. Next caller.” Well that was. . .  Efficient. “Hello, Jones, was it?”  
  
“Holmes! Oi! Me and my mates were wonderin’, is that really your name?” This one sounded like some college bloke, obviously piss drunk and with a crowd.  
  
“This is a radio show. Come on people! Think!” Holmes let out a frustrated sigh. “Never mind, you might hurt yourselves. Is there anyone of intelligence out there? Next caller – Sarah, you’re on.”  
  
“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I have a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could help me. You see, my husband hasn’t been home in three days after going to the grocer’s – ”  
  
“He’s having an affair and likely has left you for good. Best get your papers in order. Next!”  
  
John listened to the next few calls with his head cocked to one side, pondering the subtle but definite increased irritation in his voice.  
  
“Well it’s time for a commercial break. If anyone has anything of interest to say the text line is always open. If you can’t find the number it’s probably for the best.” A jingle for a local business started in and John quickly tuned out.  
  
He was thinking, and glad for once that Harry had so kindly given him a web-ready mobile. With a little difficulty, John managed to find the webpage for the show, and began systematically looking through each page of the site for the number. Finally he had found it, in the smallest print near the bottom left corner of the contact page (with a sneaking suspicion that it was meant to be hidden) and not being so tech savvy, managed to memorize the number long enough to type it into the text window.   
  
Then he paused. What the hell should he say? It’s not as though John knew this man well enough to make a joke or try to encourage him properly, and he felt no need to say something to lump himself in with, well, everyone else.  
  
“How did you know that it was an affair and he isn’t simply missing? –JW”  
  
John sent the message off before he could dwell on it, knowing that given a moment longer of staring at his mobile, he would’ve simply deleted it. He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and shook his head. He was bound to be reamed by a stranger on the radio. Great.  
  
Surprisingly enough his mobile chimed at him.  
  
“If you’re asking that, surely you have the reasoning capacity to figure it out. –SH”  
  
John frowned at his mobile. That almost sounded nice coming from him. Of course, staring at the screen he finally read the time and cursed under his breath. It was almost three a.m. and time for another walk about. The night guard fumbled with his gloves as he stood, stretching his legs a bit before walking back into the cold. What terrible timing.  
  
With a resigned sigh, John turned off the radio and pocketed his mobile. He began to walk around the building slowly, trying to enjoy the exercise before the cold set into his bones. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, John's mind wandered back to the text. I should figure it out, huh?  The woman's voice was very soft, the kind that belonged to a person easily overpowered by others. If her husband was the type of man to take advantage of such women, then it is entirely plausible that he would look for another woman to entertain him. But why would she call the radio show when her husband was missing for three days? Oh.  She knew.  She must have known what he was up to; otherwise she would have called the police instead. She would have been upset.  
  
Just as he was approaching the dumpsters, John felt his mobile go off.  
  
"Have you figured it out? –SH”  
  
He was still waiting?  John stared in wonderment at his phone, honestly floored by the idea that the genius was waiting for a response from him. Fumbling a bit around his gloves, John tapped out a reply.  
  
“Her calling you instead of the police indicates she knew, but was in denial. Otherwise she would have been panicked. –JW”  
  
The response was swift.  “Precisely. –SH”  
  
John could not explain the sudden giddiness that arose in his stomach, to receive even acknowledgment from the mysterious Holmes. He smiled to himself, a small and pleased smile, before continuing his rounds.  
  
He had walked a few meters before he got the idea in his head to simply talk to him.  
  
“I think you’re bloody brilliant, just so you know. –JW”  John sent the message quickly, already feeling the blush rising in his cheeks.  
  
“That is not what most people say. –SH”  
  
“And what do most people say? –JW”  
  
“Piss off. –SH”  
  
John laughed aloud, but he was not about to say so in a text. Instead, he put the mobile back in his pocket for the time being and returned to the guard booth, all the while attempting to figure out what he could say. Before he could find anything appropriate, his mobile chimed again.  
  
“Good night, JW. –SH”  
  
In a moment of panic, John looked at the time and felt the disappointment rise in his stomach.  It is already four a.m.; I guess he would be going home now. Heaving a sigh, John tried to shake away his anxiety. It was just a show, after all.  
  
“Goodnight, Holmes. -–JW”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First official post here at AO3! *cheers wildly*
> 
> This story began as a fill for a prompt at the kinkmeme here:  
> The Voice on the Radio- "Shelock has a nighttime radio programme. John works a lonely nightjob. John falls in love with Sherlock's voice."
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117385247#t117385247
> 
> Feedback is welcome and most loved.
> 
> This is most definitely a WIP, and though I don't have an official beta, nor do I have a Brit-picker, I am hoping to be conscientious and careful enough to make this palatable for everyone.
> 
> As Always, I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this work. Credits are due to Arthur Conan Doyle and the creators of BBC Sherlock.
> 
> Thank you for the support I've had so far, enjoy!


	2. A Great Game

Listening to Holmes was almost like being back in the war. He needed to focus, to be able to wrap his mind around the situation and find the strategy that would bring him out on the other side a victor. The conversation (well if one could call it that) with Holmes that cold night had left John wanting to understand even more, to process faster, to see what  He saw. That big picture that was so obvious to him from such small clues.   
  
It was far from easy for John. He could follow some of the logic some of the time, but he never seemed to get it quite right. He always missed something, or didn’t draw the right conclusion, but he was usually able to guess in the right direction. Not that it would mean much to Holmes. Guessing was deplorable. Also there was the problem with that blasted voice.   
  
It was bloody distracting.  
  
Even when John had managed to get onto the right track, Holmes would speak again, in that acidic and sultry tone, and whatever thought John had was as good as gone. All he could do at times was listen. This truly began to concern him when he realized what he was feeling for this disembodied voice was beginning to look very much like obsession, and wouldn’t that be strange to have to explain?   
  
That voice -– it was like poison to him. John was beginning to have conversations with himself in his head, only the other voice was  Him--  and the worst part was he wouldn’t even realize it until someone else in reality was interrupting his thoughts. John was beginning to think that the pink burning he felt on his cheeks every time was going to be permanent soon enough.   
  
John hadn’t dared to text Holmes again on the show, not without anything meaningful to say that didn’t make him feel like an outright fanatic.  
  
It had been a few weeks now, and John was still avidly listening to Holmes’ show every night. It was always best when he didn’t have to work that night and could curl up on his small bed with a hot cuppa-- there was not a worry to be had and every pleasure to be taken in closing his eyes and letting that amazing voice carry him through an amazing world.  
  
It was on such a night that Holmes did something very surprising.  
  
“Alright Ladies and Gentlemen, I have for you a very special programme tonight! We will be playing a little game and the winner will receive something of a prize. Here are the rules: I will describe to you a previous case of mine, and I will also provide a single picture on my website of the scene of the crime. The first person who can ask the correct question for solving the case will be my winner. All entries will be by phone or text, with only a yes or no response from myself. One entry per person. Is everyone ready? We will begin after this commercial break.”  
  
As Holmes had gone through the rules John felt himself sitting up straighter, setting his drink aside. Suddenly John was fretting, looking for his laptop to get to the site and see the picture before some fool managed to stumble their way to the answer before him.   
  
It was halfway through the last commercial that John finally felt prepared. With his computer open and the web page open to the promised image he studied it closely as he waited.   
  
It was a field (a moore it looked like) wherein a man lay on the ground, his face blurred out. The top of his head, however, was still intact and upon it was a large bloody wound (John’s best guess was blunt force trauma by just looking at an image). In one hand it looked as though he was clutching a red scarf, while in the other a small sharp implement covered in blood. The ground looked trampled nearby, and John could just barely make out something that looked like animal tracks leading away.   
  
He looked again to the man and took in the details that were not so ‘loud’ as it were. His clothes suggested he meant to be out but was not far from home (they were comfortable and well worn looking); his position suggested he fell backwards, consistent with the direction of the injury on his head, and would imply he was facing his aggressor.  Not a surprise then ; the man was confronting who or whatever it was that killed him.  
  
That was it. All he could glean from the image without any information, just what was there.  
  
“And we’re back. Let’s get down to the story, shall we? A prized racehorse goes missing and its trainer found dead. That’s him there in the picture. Naturally, the police investigated and arrested the owner of the scarf who was also seen on the property the evening before. The occupants of the property attested to hearing nothing unusual or suspicious that evening, and the dogs were not heard barking after the suspect had left. The suspect pleads not guilty of course, citing that after his late visit to the property to ask the stable boy on watch duty some questions and was vehemently thrown from said property, he returned home by midnight with no one who could corroborate his alibi. The time of death is estimated to be about two a.m. that morning, and no sign of the missing horse on the property. The suspect was found not guilty and the horse was later found unharmed. Now who can ask the right question? Your answer may include the reasoning for your question. We will begin taking calls after this musical break.”  
  
John’s mind vaguely registered the beginning notes to Beethoven's piano sonata no. 8 as he furiously mulled over Holmes’ words.   
  
It wasn’t the suspect. . .  Wait. the horse was unharmed.  Why would Sherlock feel the need to say that?  The dogs didn’t bark, that was strange too. Either they were rendered useless or it was someone who belonged on the property that took the horse, right? It was more likely the latter, but who would remove the horse in the middle of the night?  
  
John looked again to the image, scanning over the details to see if there was anything he missed. His eyes returned to the blade again and again. He fiddled for a moment and managed to zoom in on the weapon and realized why it looked so familiar.   
  
It was a scalpel.  
  
Why on earth would a horse trainer have a scalpel? It wasn’t as though it was even an intelligent choice for self defense, being so small a blade it would only serve to make shallow cuts unless the user could make very precise cuts to very particular parts of the body where tendons and veins ran near the surface.  
  
John’s thoughts were interrupted as Holmes returned to his show.  
  
“Hello again, let’s take our first caller! Elizabeth, you are on the air. What do you think the question should be?”  
  
“Um, where did the scarf come from?” Her voice was small and timid.  
  
“No. Next! Michael?”  
  
“If that one bloke didn’ do it, who took the horse?”  
  
“Incorrect. Next, Jacob.”  
  
“Why did the trainer have the other guy’s scarf?”  
  
“No. Let’s look at- oh and there are no text message responses so far, that’s a shame.” Holmes was beginning to sound bored of his own game already. He went on with the calls.  
  
John tried to think through the responses. People seem to be focusing on the scarf, but it seemed irrelevant to Holmes. If the man was there earlier it’s entirely plausible he simply dropped it on the property.   
  
“Ladies and Gentlemen, our first text of the night. Joanie writes: who was the owner of the blood on the blade? Well Joanie, good question, but wrong.” John could almost hear Holmes rolling his eyes. John had seen it too, the cuts on the trainer’s leg would have matched the small blade. The trainer had cut himself on the knife presumably before he managed to cut anything else.  
  
“Holmes?” Another woman, of course.  
  
“Rebecca, you’re on the air.”  
  
“Where did they find the horse?”  
  
“Ah Rebecca, that’s a no.”  
  
As more and more people phoned in, guessing as incorrectly as the last, his question burned in John’s mind, but he feared getting it wrong. It was less about the prize (whatever it was) and more about the fact that John did not want to disappoint Holmes. But he was a soldier and a doctor, present situation be damned, and John Hamish Watson did not back down from a challenge. He noticed the distinct lack of a tremor in his hand as he tapped out his question.  
  
“Why does the horse trainer have a surgical scalpel? -–JW”  
  
John sent it without looking again, knowing his nerves would get the better of him if he did.  
  
“Ah, another text response! JW asks: Why does the horse trainer have a surgical scalpel? That is exactly the kind of thinking I was looking for! Why indeed? It hardly measures up as a weapon of self defense, and working for a stable housing prized racing horses, things like scalpels would be completely unnecessary-- all medical work would be done by a veterinary professional who would always bring their own tools for sanitation purposes. Later tonight I will post the complete logic for solving this case on the web page. . .”  
  
For once John had stopped listening to Holmes and simply stared at his radio in amazement.   
  
I won?  
  
It felt for a moment as though time had stopped, all John could feel was the anticipation curling in his stomach. He didn’t even know what the blasted prize  was, but that was hardly important. He had once again proven himself worthy of Holmes’ attention. As though his thoughts were being screamed through the streets of London, John’s phone sounded with a text alert.   
  
“Congratulations, JW. Your prize, as promised. -–SH”   
  
The number was not that of the text line to the show, but an actual phone number. John’s heart stumbled rather poorly on the next few beats as his mind tried to accept what he was seeing.  
  
“This is your number, Holmes? -–JW”  
  
“This is my private number, JW. -–SH”   
  
John could still hear it, that acidic tone he took with people when they said something idiotic, but in his mind, Holmes was smiling about it too. He felt the flush of his cheeks as he rubbed his eye and tried not to yawn. He could hear Holmes on the radio, wrapping up his show, saying goodnight. It was four in the morning again and John was the happiest he had been for months.  
  
“Goodnight, JW. -–SH”  
  
John didn’t even hesitate this time, the grin that had plastered itself to his face unrelenting even to the exhaustion of his body.  
  
“Goodnight, Holmes. Ta. -–JW”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the continuation as promised. I hope it lives up to expectation!
> 
> *The case I was using for reference is the Silver Blaze story from ACD's Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Tell Me Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe drunk dialing IS a good idea.

Tonight, John was not listening to Holmes.  
  
The statement still left a bad taste in his mouth. John had been coerced into going to the pub on his night off with the lads, and it wasn’t as though the activity wasn’t enjoyable, it just wasn’t Holmes. Which is exactly why he had to do it.  
  
Three weeks. John had three weeks worth of text messages from the private number of Holmes. They talked about the show, mostly, and sometimes they would even talk about their own lives. Nothing too personal, a shit day at work, a snarky remark about a passerby (mostly that was Holmes, but it was definitely entertaining), and even joking happened. All in all, it was quite satisfactory for John, to have someone to talk to like this. It was very different from any conversation he could have with his mates. Never called, though. John wasn’t sure he could manage that. And Holmes never called him either; maybe he wanted it that way.  
  
It had been just over four and a half months since John first discovered Holmes’ show, and exactly two months since he started finding any excuse not to miss it. He had even gone so far as to learn how to stream the radio through his phone in order to listen to the show during his rounds. John was no fool, he knew his behavior was bordering the line of problematic, that this preoccupation with Holmes and his sinful voice and stinging wit was catching up to the rest of his life—he just couldn’t bring himself to care most days.  
  
So when his old mate, Mike Stamford, finally cornered him at the grocer’s today and invited him out, John could not bring himself to decline. It was thanks to Mike that John was able to even find his guard position at Bart’s, and Mike had promised to keep an ear to the ground for anything in a better direction. Before the show, pub night was their ritual, getting piss drunk and running amok like younger men. It was rather invigorating, even if the hangovers never felt worth it, and it always felt like better days.  
  
It would be for the best.  
  
At least that was what John was telling himself as he prepared to go out. He caught himself staring longingly at the radio more than once, as if willing Holmes’ voice to come through and stop him.  
  
And he would have.  
  
The same niggling was with him all the way to the pub, and through the first two rounds even, before John could settle into the heady feeling of intoxication and the slack smile of his youth. They were as rowdy as ever, singing and shouting at the game, making fools of each other for a laugh. John was honestly enjoying it now. He felt something akin to affection for the familiarity of the dingy, low lighting, the vague smell of smoke and booze that was everywhere, and the abused wooden bar and tables. It was almost comforting.  
  
“Ah, there’s the John Watson I know! You were looking so wound up this whole time, I was beginning to wonder if we had a row coming.” Mike’s flush and vague slur matched John’s as he laughed it off, patting Mike’s shoulder.  
  
“Sorry, mate. I’ve got new habits that are hard to break. Nothin’ with you.” John was chuckling to himself as a couple of the guys playing pool abruptly stopped in favor of yelling about a bad call to the telly. They hadn’t noticed that in their excitement, one bloke had knocked over their pitcher.  
  
“John, what could you possibly have on at your flat that you’d skip out on this?” The question was casual, but John could see it in Mike’s face—the concern of a friend. It seems Mike had been waiting to ask this for awhile, when everyone else was caught up in their fun.  
  
“Ah. Well, I’ve just been listening to this show on the radio. Brilliant stuff, this bloke knows what he’s on about.” John could feel his heart starting to race a bit underneath the haze of the lager. He hid his reddening cheeks behind another long drought.  
  
Mike’s laughter rumbled through him, his head (along with the rest of him, being a portly fellow) shaking in disbelief. “Yeah? What is it then, some conspiracy nutter? Didn’t know you fancied that kind of thing.”  
  
“Not like that Mike. It’s called, ‘The Science of Deduction,’ hosted by some fellow called Holmes. I think it’s right clever.” Ah, there was that niggling again. That anxiety. John ordered and downed a shot of whiskey. The pub was getting busy now, the wave of noises was beginning to rise.  
  
“Holmes? That must be Sherlock Holmes! The cheeky bastard would host a show like that.” It was as if Mike was talking about a good mate, and that alone was enough to hold John’s attention.  
  
“You know him?” John was trying so hard to hide his reaction, his excitement. He tried to relax his body language, not wanting to bring attention to himself as everyone gathered near him for another round of drinks.  
  
“Know him? Sherlock comes round Bart’s almost daily! He might as well have his own office as often as he’s ‘round. He’s got a nasty habit of picking my lab for the microscope use, though.” Mike did his best approximation to rolling his eyes for a man of his age and dignity, eliciting a chuckle from John.  
  
“What does he do at Bart’s? I’ve never heard of anyone with that name.” There were many things whirling around John’s brain just at that moment, but he was able to remind himself not to grab Mike by his shirt for answers and to continue breathing as normal. All that violence acclimation was good for something post-war after all, his hand wasn’t even shaking.  
  
“Well you wouldn’t, he doesn’t work there or anything. He runs experiments, usually on the corpses. And besides, you work the third; he’s there during the days. If it wasn’t for the very generous donations that Bart’s receives from his family, I doubt anyone would stand for it.” Mike finally looked at ease, nibbling on some chips as he watched John and what he could only imagine as the many wheels turning in his friend’s mind. “Would you like to meet the arrogant sod?”  
  
John’s mouth was just a bit dry, and unconsciously he licked his lip in thought. “Ah, that’s alright, thanks.” A huge uproar suddenly burst from almost everyone in the pub. People were standing and shouting obscenities _—_ another bad call.  
  
“Well why not? You seemed so keen just a moment ago.” Mike’s eyes twinkled in a way John was not appreciating.  
  
Instead of knocking said twinkle out, he opted to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh, trying to hide the ‘more-than-just-the-alcohol’ blush rising in his cheeks. “I know— what with Harry and all— no one is inclined to believe me, but I’m not gay.” He took another deep breath. “Besides, between what I hear and what you know, what point would there be in meeting him? He’d probably tear me apart like those damned corpses.”  
  
Mike was laughing again, and that was good news for John, who laughed right along with him. The rest of the night they went on about the rugby (it’s just been a terrible season), the work (boring), and the stories of yesteryear. All and all, the evening was just what the doctor needed, even if the blonde down the bar completely squashed his attempts at having a little flirt.  
  
The men finally parted ways as the bar began to close, in good spirits and with promises of getting together much sooner in the future.  
  
Which left John walking home alone again. Out of habit John checked his phone to find three new messages.  
  
 _“You’re not listening to the show tonight.—SH.”_  
  
 _“Pity, I think you would have appreciated this case.—SH”_  
  
 _“I suppose that means you aren’t working tonight either.—SH”_  
  
It made John feel oddly warm that Holmes—no, Sherlock—would take notice of his absence. It also made him feel a bit guilty. So if it was the guilt or the alcohol still heavy in his system that convinced him to ring Sherlock, John wasn’t about to sort it out. Instead he held his breath, still standing outside the bar, waiting for Sherlock to pick up.  
  
“This is Holmes.” It was a biting statement with no cordiality, and yet John found himself smiling.  
  
“Is your name really Sherlock Holmes?” John could hear himself slur that last ‘s’, and he took a deep breath to reign himself in before starting down the street. There seemed no point in asking how he knew John wasn’t listening; John had been keen to talk to Holmes when the cases were interesting.  
  
There seemed to be a long silence on the other end, as though Sherlock couldn’t tell if John was trying to be funny or not. “That depends. Is yours really JW?” _Was that a joke?_  
  
“It’s John. Captain John Watson M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” There was definitely a slur at the end; John bit his lip to keep from giggling, or saluting the empty street. Both a bit not good.  
  
“An army doctor, that does explain it. Tell me, John, why are you calling me at three thirty in the morning? I’m still at work you know.” The words could hardly be described as chastising, more like Sherlock was trying not to laugh as well.  
  
“Then why did you answer?” The words came out a bit more playful than he intended, and suddenly John Watson became very self conscious about the idea that he might in fact be _flirting_ with another man, at almost four in the morning, drunk. And not a damn was given by the good doctor.  
  
“Touchѐ.”  
  
John waited for a moment, and when no more was forthright he began to feel sheepish. “I can let you go then, if you’re busy—“  
  
“That’s quite alright, I have it on a recording anyway.” Sherlock cut him off quickly, for which John was thankful. Then the words actually sank in.  
  
“You’re just playing recordings of yourself? Mike was right, you are an arrogant sod.” John wanted to sound affronted, he really did, but the laughter would not be held back.  
  
“Mike Stamford? Right, army doctor, then you were trained at Bart’s with Mike. So you’ve been away at war and are recently returned, why? The fact that you don’t work at Bart’s as a doctor despite remaining close to Stamford indicates a physical inability rather than a lack of will, so injury then. Where does an army doctor get a career crippling injury, Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
“Hold the phone. I could work at another hospital, you know.” Granted, John was a bit breathless listening to this man unravel him like one of those fantastic cases, and it sent a jolt through his body like nothing else, but John was sobering up enough to follow and be offended. Sort of.  
  
“Possible but unlikely. You’re an army doctor returned from war, they would not put you on the third shift.” There it was again, that electricity. John worried his bottom lip.  
  
“How do you know I work the third shift?” John didn’t really care at that point; he just wanted to hear more. To have Sherlock’s attention.  
  
“It’s obvious. You listen to my show on a regular basis and our conversations always happen at night, usually after my show. Any other type of schedule and you would be asleep most of the time. Now, Afghanistan or Iraq?” This time the question was almost a command, and giving that voice such an aggressive tone took John’s mind to terrible, terrible places. Well, terrible to the public at least, lovely for him.  
  
“Afghanistan.” John paused, but spoke before he could think. “That’s fantastic.”  
  
“Do you really think so?” The genuine sound of surprise in Sherlock’s voice was amazingly gratifying. John made a mental note that he would like to hear it again as often as possible.  
  
“Yes I do, that was incredible.”  
  
“Very good then.” It felt like some kind of submission, and John idly wondered if he might be into that sort of thing. Then John stumbled on the pavement and fell quite flat on his face. In a panic, he scrambled to make sure he was still on the call, and then made a vain attempt to pretend falling didn’t happen.  
  
“Ah, you’re inebriated.” Sherlock spoke so casually that John’s face turned red even without anyone to witness his blunder.  
  
“No, I’m very coherent. I will remember this in the morning.” God would he remember, his shoulder was already acting up. “Just because I had a few doesn’t mean I don’t understand exactly what I’m saying.” Suddenly his mind decided to back pedal to their previous conversation, and having picked himself back up to walk he indulged. “I could _want_ to work the third shift.”  
  
“And ruin all of that training to wake so early? You’re a doctor; you know what happens when the body goes through that.” The frank arrogance was back, that ‘I know better than you’, and John shook his head at a street lamp.  
  
“You know Sherlock, if you weren’t such an arrogant git, I think I’d consider calling again.” The words came easily, and in the dark of the night John didn’t feel any of his earlier embarrassment. He was climbing up the steps now to his building.  
  
“I think you might do it anyway.” John stopped with his hand on the knob. _Was Sherlock . . . flirting at him?_  
  
John shook his head and turned the knob, letting himself in from the cold damp of the night. “You’re probably right. Although I do have to be going now; what with sleep and work and all that.”  
  
“Very well. This has been very interesting. Goodnight Doctor Watson.” To John, his voice seemed a little resigned, though it didn’t seem Sherlock would be sleeping anytime soon. He, on the other hand, was already tossing about his keys and jumper, toeing off his shoes and trying hard not to collapse into his bed.  
  
“Goodnight Sherlock. I’ll text you again soon, yeah?” It was a small offering in hope, but John wasn’t holding his breath.  
  
There was a long moment of silence, and John feared he had actually managed to offend him. “If you must.” He heard the line click dead and smiled.  
  
 _That almost sounded like a ‘Please.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the awful delay, traveling around without internet makes posting not so easy. But here it is! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Thanks again for all the support and excitement, every bit of it keeps me driving through to write the next part for you guys!


	4. A Day In The Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it's been far too long since I updated, and this chapter is short, so please do forgive me. I've been working on pinch-hits/exchanges/challenges this month and it's all been rather hectic. I'll be posting those stories as well in the upcoming days.

John loved many things, not the least of which was sleep. So when he received a call at 1:32 in the afternoon (a time clearly designated for sleeping), John was less than pleased.  
  
 _John was sitting somewhere warm and comfortable, head rolled back as though he was nodding off or looking up. He could hear that voice -Sherlock- whispering in his ear, revealing his deepest secrets and darkest memories by the way he dozed and the scars of his hand._  
  
 _He felt a single fingertip, cold against his skin, tipping his head to the side from a point behind his ear. Now he was undressing his military history by the flexibility of his neck and the tension of his shoulders. John was shuddering._  
  
 _That same finger was tracing the tendon of the exposed side of his neck, the fingernail scraped his skin ever so lightly. Sherlock was predicting his reactions to different types of contact to his neck and . . . And . . . What the bloody hell was that sound?!_  
  
The default ringtone for his Nokia was singing merrily from his nightstand, and John was never so inclined to destroy a piece of technology before.  
  
With just an iota of consciousness, John answered his phone with a gruff, “Watson here.”  
  
“Hey Johnny! It’s Sam, I need a favor.” The vaguely familiar voice on the other side was just barely enough to keep John from throwing the biggest tantrum of his adult life. Sam was one of the youngest members of the security team at Bart's, also the most notorious for getting out of work.  
  
“Yes, Sam, What do you want?” John knew he sounded short; he didn’t give a rat’s arse.  
  
“Well, you see, I’ve got this new internship, for school, you know? It’s my second year in the nursing program, and I have to do my hours in a practical setting. But I’ve got to be there during the afternoons for it, and well, that’s in the middle of my normal shift.”  
  
“Cut to the chase, Sammy. I’m supposed to be sleeping.”  
  
Sam started to stutter in his nervousness. “Y-yeah, well, I was hoping- until it’s over- you could switch shifts with me?” The youthful hope in his voice made John heave a sigh attempting not to gag.  
  
“And when would I be switching with you?”  
  
“Uh, today if you could? I’d owe you a pint sometime.” Sam seemed content with his offering.  
  
John looked at the clock on his phone and instantly felt the adrenaline start pumping. “What the bloody hell, Sam?! That’s in half an hour!”  
  
“Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got to finish the paperwork and—”  
  
“Sam, one more word and I swear I will punch you in the face the next time I see you.” John’s great exasperation permeated his sigh; he looked around his room and calculating just how long he would need. “Look, I can get in by three— you can tell that to Earl— and this is on your head.” He ended the call abruptly, scrubbing his face in agitation. “Owe me a pint; what a load of bollocks.” John made a mad dash around his room, throwing on his uniform, not bothering with any caffeine, and angrily stormed out of the flat for a very _long_ day at work.

***

  
“Ah, John! Good to see you in the light of day!” Earl called out to him from across the cafeteria, where John sat on his lunch break. It was John’s second day on the new shift, and he felt as though intravenous caffeine might be the only thing that would keep him moving. He had tried to stay awake that night for Sherlock’s show, but had only managed to fall asleep as that smooth, dark voice went on about the chemical residues of household cleaners and the ease or difficulty of lifting fingerprints from them. Not a bad way to drift off, but waking to no less than six missed text messages was rather guilt inducing.  
  
“Earl, good to see you. How’s the back?” John gave the man a small smile, returning his focus to his food. Earl was a larger man, much like Mike, with short, dark hair that was beginning to pepper at his temples and a thick mustache to contrast the stubble that covered his cheeks and neck. He wore the simple black slacks and white button down of the security uniform, and John couldn’t help but notice the coffee stains on the left cuff of Earl’s sleeve. _His hands must be shaky. Or he’s just that clumsy._  
  
Earl smiled wholeheartedly and patted John’s shoulder as he joined him at the table. “Same as ever, more trouble than it’s worth. How are you adjusting? I know Sammy pulled a fast one on you, I hope you weren’t too hard on him.”  
  
John almost felt proud of himself for managing to keep from rolling his eyes. His whole body was suffering from how little sleep he had managed since this atrocious shift change, and not having the chance to talk to Sherlock was wearing thin on his nerves. John shrugged his shoulders and smiled, trying not to let the frustration he truly felt show. “I feel like I could have been harsher than I was, what with how much sleep I’ve lost for this.” Earl was a good man, even if John would still happily throttle Sam. John took a long, slow sip of his coffee.  
  
“Aye, I’m sure it was a hard change to make. I do appreciate you doing this for him, and for me too. How’s your leg?”  
  
For a moment John looked to the limb as though it would answer before returning his gaze to Earl. If he was honest, things had gotten worse. These past few months on the night shift, John had been able to go without his cane, albeit stiffly. However, this second shift was not so easy on him. He gripped his cane unconsciously a little tighter under the table, the soldier in him unwilling to admit this drawback. “Better, I would like to think, just the usual trouble.” _I’m just bored out of my mind out there._  
  
“Think you could make the indoor rounds then?” John watched Earl’s face, not entirely sure what he was looking for as he chewed his bite of some bland sandwich from the line. Business as usual then. “Sam was due to switch inside before all this mess.”  
  
John paused, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his lips while he processed the question. This would mean stairs— many, many stairs, and often. “Uh, yeah. Of course. I. . . I haven’t really walked the indoor rounds since we did the initial tour.”  
  
“Yes, yes. I’d be happy to show you again. When you’re done here, of course.” Earl gave him a pleased smile, glorifying in his pseudo-power before rising to leave. “I’ll just be in my office, no rush.” John could hear that sense of self importance in those words, and felt his jaw clench in resentment. _It’s not as though you have anything better to be doing._  
  
Thirty minutes later, John found himself knocking on the door of his supervisor, composing his face to hide the complete lack of enthusiasm he had for this whole ordeal.  Earl reminded John of many superiors he had in the army, those who had served long enough to work up the ranks rather than advancing on merit. He was sedentary and inert, with a lack of qualifications that was painfully obvious to anyone who was even minutely competent. To the higher ups though, Earl’s unlimited capacity to delegate his work and tolerant but attentive veneer was everything they wanted, or so it would seem. Looking for a new job sounded wonderful about now. John could hear a shuffling of papers, a chair being pushed across the carpet, and Earl clearing his throat as he crossed the small room to answer the door. “Ah, there you are, John. Ready to see the rounds?” Earl only waited to see the small nod of John’s head before starting down the hall.  
  
They walked the floors slowly, Earl babbling on about the different stationary guards in each ward and John nodding duly as he ignored his aching leg. As they walked towards the Pathology Department, a thought occurred to John belatedly. _Sherlock performs experiments on the corpses. What if I’m in the same building as Sherlock right now?_ The thought made his heart race just a little as he tried to pay more attention, making a small game of taking in his surroundings and deducing what he thought Sherlock might see. It was some painfully indeterminate amount of time later that the two men found themselves down near the morgue.  
  
“Have you met Molly Hooper yet? She’s a real sweetheart, that one. A bit quiet though.” John honestly couldn’t tell if Earl had paused once since they began the tour, and felt he couldn’t be blamed for tuning out.  
  
When John realized his supervisor was actually waiting for a response, the poor doctor had to take another moment to actually think about the question. “Well, no, I—” John’s mouth immediately snapped shut as a familiar voice drifted through the door of the morgue.  
  
“I’ll take that coffee in the lab, thank you, Molly.”  
  
John slammed his body low against the wall, trying to hide behind the swinging door in the wake of _that_ voice. He could only vaguely distinguish the sounds of Earl’s and The Voice’s exchange over the rushing of blood in his ears (Earl being usual pompous self, and _Him_ disregarding the whole affair). John’s heart pounded furiously in his chest, and his body was alight with instinct like it hadn’t been since the war. _I must not be seen. Not now._ Earl had looked back down at his employee on the floor, a startled look on his face to match John’s own.  
  
The first thing that John noticed as he watched the man’s back was that he was tall: all legs and long coat with a mop of lovely dark curls. When the man momentarily turned his head and gave John an arrogant smirk without breaking his stride, the pieces fell together.  
  
 _This is Sherlock Holmes._


End file.
